


The Path I Must Trudge

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Some Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Strangulation, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28007661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Jaskier wasn’t just a bard, anymore. He was Geralt’s bard, whatever that meant. He’d written the songs, made him famous, followed him around and absorbed all his stories. He’d been there, all those years ago, when Geralt had claimed the Child Surprise.Nilfgaard is looking for Geralt. And who better to question than his bard? Finding himself on the run, Jaskier is forced to begin the journey to the one place he might be safe: Lettenhove. But there's a price on his head, now, and he's a wanted man: dead or alive.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 298
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry





	The Path I Must Trudge

Jaskier had always wondered how everything trudged so steadfastly on, even when it felt like you were dying on the inside. Heartbreak and misery meant nothing to the world around you - farmers sowed and reaped and milled, artists continued to make art, poets continued to write. Bakers made the same loaves every morning, and blacksmiths made the same swords every dusk. Taverns were always full and busy and loud, even when there was a little void trapped between your own ribs.

Nobles threw banquets, got married, had children, died. Kings and Queens fought with each other. Soldiers trained, fought, bled out on the field.

A year passed. The pain became an ache, the ache became dull, and soon it was like a bruise plastered across his chest. It only hurt if he touched it.

Cintra had fallen. There’d been a battle on Sodden Hill, and mages and soldiers alike had died. Everywhere Jaskier went, war had arrived there first.

It was in a little inn in Rinde that he first heard a soldier asking if anyone knew the whereabouts of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken. Jaskier had pulled his travelling cloak up over his head and ducked out of the tavern and up to his room. By the time he’d bolted the door and collapsed onto the bed, his heart was pounding and his hands were sweaty. He didn’t know what had made him run, but the instinct was bone-deep.

He left Rinde the next morning, before the sun was up. The stable was full of horses, the inn full of men.

From there, he managed to piece little bits together. The Nilfgaardian forces, Princess Cirilla, a mage, a man in black… and Geralt there, somehow, at the centre of it.

_The child surprise_. He’d never anticipated that it could end like this; with whole armies chasing Geralt down. He thought, many times, back to Geralt’s last words to him.

_Whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it’s you, shovelling it? The Child Surprise, the Djinn, all of it!_

Jaskier had denied it, at the time. He’d stumbled down that mountain and repeated it to himself, again and again: _he’s wrong. He’s wrong, he’s just angry. It’s not true._

That had been more than a year ago. He’d mused on Geralt’s accusations more times than he could ever count. He’d drifted into fitful sleep with them ringing in his ears for days - _weeks_ \- at a time. Perhaps Geralt _was_ right.

When Jaskier saw the first batch of armed guards kick down a door and press a barkeep to the wall by his throat, demanding to know where the White Wolf was, Jaskier _knew_ he was right.

Had Jaskier not demanded Geralt’s protection at Queen Calanthe’s banquet, none of this would have happened. He didn’t sleep for a week. Every time he closed his eyes he was struck with visions of Geralt being struck down, a whole army of men versus a single Witcher, killed where he stood.

It was all Jaskier’s fault. Geralt would die, and his blood would be as much on Jaskier’s hands as it would be on the men who killed him - on those who made the orders.

He’d watched as the unfortunate barkeep stuttered a response and had ducked away while the soldiers were distracted. If they were willing to intimidate an innocent stranger - someone who’d probably only heard stories of Geralt and never even met him - he didn’t want to see what they’d do to him.

Because he was _Jaskier_. He wasn’t just a bard, anymore. He was _Geralt’s_ bard, whatever that meant. He’d written the songs, made him famous, followed him around and absorbed all his stories. He’d been there, all those years ago, when Geralt had claimed the Child Surprise. He’d been there when the Mayor’s house in Rinde had collapsed. He’d been there when--

Jaskier had always assumed that it was Blaviken that would hover over Geralt’s head like an immovable stormcloud. He couldn’t have known, decades ago, that the Child Surprise would be the thing that doomed him; made him a wanted man.

When he’d tied himself to the witcher, he knew that people saw Geralt as a monster, and so would judge Jaskier based on the company he kept. But he didn’t care - didn’t mind the insults that were directed at them both, on occasion.

There were more than insults, of course. Inferrals. Implications. Why would this young man - soft and loud and brash - be so content travelling with a monster? Why would the twice-over champion of the Oxenfurt Academy of the Arts Annual Bardic Competition decide to spend his days with a brute like Geralt?

People made their assumptions. They were wrong, of course, and the accusations and raised eyebrows hurt Geralt more than they hurt Jaskier. Or rather: they hurt him in a different way.

It had taken only a couple of years for Jaskier to fall in love with Geralt. It had taken him a significantly shorter amount of time to fall in _lust_ with him, of course: since that first moment he spotted him, brooding in a corner, all muscle and mystery. Jaskier had been young and foolish and he didn’t regret a thing, not a single thing.

He reminded himself of that as he ducked into alleyways to avoid a gang of soldiers, or wriggled out of the grip of bandits looking for easy pay.

The first time the soldiers came for him was a surprise. He’d kept his head low, refusing to play, dressing in darker colours and drab clothing to better blend in. He was heading to Oxenfurt, where he hoped he’d be safe. Priscilla had always said, _always_ , that she’d be there if he needed her. Valdo was an incorrigible shit, but even _he_ would give Jaskier a room for the night if his life was truly in danger.

The inn he was staying in was small, but not small enough. Someone had recognised him, and pointed the soldiers in his direction for a small bag of coins. Jaskier didn’t blame him: people were starving under the yoke of war. A bag of crowns could save a whole family, now. The Nilfgaardian had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and thrown him to the dirt outside, and demanded to know where Geralt was.

Jaskier didn’t know. He repeated it, over and over. He didn’t know where Geralt was. He hadn’t seen him in over a year. He didn’t know where he _might_ be. The man had been travelling alone, thankfully, and had kicked Jaskier till he vomited at his feet. He’d managed to get away - he wasn’t sure how, it was all a blur, all a bruise. He’d woken up, his head wringing, hidden beneath the tangled roots of a tree that had been ripped from the ground by a gale.

With sneaking and bribery and the promise to never return he had managed to barter his things back from the innkeeper. That night he slept outside and as he warmed his chilled hands on the tiny, crackling fire he shuddered. Things were changing. He had to get back to Oxenfurt.

He went the long way, avoiding the main roads where he could. It soon became clear that people were divided - some, desperate for money and terrified of the Nilfgaardians, who were rumoured to use magic on those who crossed them - would sell him out as soon as look at him. Others were kinder. Jaskier’s work hadn’t been for nothing, and Geralt’s reputation had been saved somewhat by his songs. Distrust for the Nilfgaardians and first-hand experience of Geralt’s heroism meant that many would put him up and keep him hidden - give him a warm fire and a roof over his head for a single night.

Oxenfurt was clouded with fog when he arrived late one summer evening. Both bridges were guarded, and he found himself splashing through the river and up a bank, thankful that the warm weather had lowered the water level. It was quiet in the streets, thank all the gods, and even luckier: Priscilla was right where he’d left her two years ago, the resident artist in a well-paying playhouse.

She’d heard that Geralt was being hunted, of course. Everyone knew. And worse: people had been looking for Jaskier, too. They’d been and gone months earlier, knowing that he was tied to Oxenfurt just as much as he was tied to the Witcher, and had left empty handed. For once, Jaskier’s flighty nature worked in his favour: his friends in Oxenfurt didn’t know where he’d gone any more than he knew where Geralt was.

He and Priscilla shared a bottle of Est Est, spending a long evening working out what to do. When she told him about the soldiers who’d stormed the Academy looking for traces of the witcher and the bard, her voice trembled, even though she tried to hide it.

Jaskier knew he couldn't stay. He gave her all the things he didn’t need on the road: his notebooks, all but one of his fine outfits, the trinkets he’d picked up along the way. He passed her Filavandrel’s lute last of all.

“Take care of her,” he said, running his fingers across the strings one last time. “I’ll be back for her, when this is all over.”

She grabbed his hand, and her fingers were cold. “Promise me you will be,” she said. “Promise me.”

He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He left three days later, his bag full of food, his art left behind. Before he left, Pris had hacked at his hair with a pair of scissors. It had grown so long. Now it was cropped short. He barely recognised himself in her mirror. Without his fine clothes or his lute, he wasn’t a bard any more - he was barely even _Jaskier_ any more. He slid on his old name like an old, ill-fitting doublet.

“Julian Pankratz,” he told the guard at the gate, keeping his head low, standing so the rising sun would obscure the guard’s view. “I’m travelling South, to Lettenhove.”

Lettenhove. The last place he wanted to go. No doubt word of Geralt had reached them. It was his last hope, before simply giving up and going into hiding. His father still held power there - he could keep him safe, if he could bring himself to let his wayward son back into his life. He’d never much approved of Jaskier’s travelling - he’d never much approved of _anything_ Jaskier did. But together they could perhaps remove some of the tarnish from his reputation, and he’d be fit for marrying, for furthering his father’s power and extending his reach.

His father would like that.

Jaskier would not, of course, but he found himself without many other options. He left the city at dawn and walked until his legs couldn’t carry him any further, then lit himself a small fire in a woody clearing where he could rest undisturbed for the night. He’d not truly considered the implications of returning to Lettenhove - of returning _home_. The more he dwelled on it, the sun setting and the fire shrinking, the more he became convinced. If his father _did_ allow him back, then he’d simply use him as collateral. Marry him off to the wealthiest person he could find and make him someone else’s problem.

He could do that, if he had to. Nobles didn’t often marry for love, and besides: who was left for him? He’d not been _in love_ with anyone since…

Well.

So much had happened - so much fear and running and hiding, so many near misses and close calls - that he’d managed to almost forget the hot little split in his heart that even now threatened to crack his ribs open. The quietness of the woods around him and the realisation that returning to Lettenhove meant tying himself irrevocably to another person made him realise, suddenly, that it had never really healed.

That was probably why he was still running. The few times he’d been captured, he could have told them enough to let him go. He could have mentioned Kaer Morhen, although he didn’t know its exact location. He could have talked about the armourers he knew Geralt favoured, the safe houses in Skellige, the ties the witcher had in Toussaint. He could have told them about Yennefer, about _that_ whole mess, but he didn’t. He _wouldn’t_. They’d have to kill him first.

It was true that he hadn’t seen Geralt since he’d shouted at him on the mountain, and it was true that he didn’t know where he was. But there was more - much more - that he could have told them to assist their search.

Above, the moon cast eerie shadows on his make-shift camp. He stomped out the fire, spread out his bedroll and attempted to sleep, knowing he had weeks of long treks ahead of him.

The Nilfgaardians had made a camp in Cidaris. Jaskier found a friendly tavern - Geralt had saved their daughter from a wight nearly five years ago - and had been about to enjoy his first meal in weeks that he hadn’t caught and cooked himself when the door burst open. The landlady had bundled him into the back, and pressed to the barrels of beer behind the bar he could hear the soldiers chatting, clear as anything.

“He ain’t here. Neither of them are here. So why are we fuckin’ looking for them?”

“Because Emhyr won't stop until we find the princess. Neither will that fucking witch.”

“And they think that we find her if we find the witcher’s pet bard? It’s bullshit, Stefan, and we both know it.”

Jaskier stiffened against the barrels, barely even daring to breathe.

“You’ve heard reports from the other units,” the voice continued. “He’s been captured half a dozen times. He don’t know _shit_.”

“And,” said Stefan, his voice low, “he’s _escaped_ half a dozen times. What does that tell you?”

“It tells me that Emhyr was too worried about building an army and not worried enough about makin’ sure it was any fuckin’ good. Too many green lads. Can’t even keep a fucking _bard_ still.”

The other men snorted in agreement.

“If we find him,” he continued, “I say we just kill him. He doesn’t know where the witcher is, and if he’s dead, Emhyr can’t send any more idiot fucking boys after him. Maybe we’ll get a bloody _rest_ , for once. I’m done with chasing shadows, Stefan.”

Mugs clinked, benches screeched across the floor. After three hours, the men left. When the landlady came to find him, Jaskier’s legs had seized up beneath him.

The army was camped reasonably far away, and she offered him a room for the night. He took it gratefully, although once he was in the tiny room - the door bolted and the chest of drawers dragged across it - he couldn’t sleep.

He lay in the bed, and the soldier’s words rang in his ears. So this was it, then. They’d kill him if they found him. No more questions, no more _idiot boys_ , as the man had called them.

Jaskier swung his legs off of the hard mattress and he leant for his bag, which he’d pushed beneath the bed. He scrambled inside till his hand brushed against something cold and hard. He knew that keeping it hidden like this was foolish, but he’d been too proud to get it out, and too fucking sentimental to give it away. He was lucky that he hadn’t needed it thus far.

He pulled the dagger that Geralt had given him ten years ago out of the bag and examined it, still in its pristine leather sheath. When he tugged out the blade, it glimmered in the low light.

That night, he slept with the dagger beneath his pillow. In the morning, he strapped it to his belt. They wanted to kill him, he knew that now. He’d been denying it all this time - assuming that they’d simply capture him and drag him to their commander. He couldn't rely on that assumption any more. Geralt had always teased his argumentative nature, the way he was quick to ire. Now he could put that to good use.

With more to risk, travelling was even slower. Thankfully he was soon well away from the Cidaris encampment, but word travelled fast that he was a man wanted for questioning. It wasn’t just soldiers he needed to be wary of, but opportunistic villagers and gangs of bounty hunters looking for a man who fit his description.

Looking for a _bard_. But he wasn’t a bard anymore, he had to remind himself. Just another traveller running from war. A _viscount_ , if his father was amenable.

Weeks passed. His feet and legs were constantly aching, his toes rubbing against each other, his boots blistering his heels. A toenail fell off as he was pulling off his boots to bathe in a stream and he didn’t even blink. He skirted the edge of Brokilon, weighing the risk of elves versus the risk of men, keeping to the shadows.

It was just outside of Hamm where Jaskier found him. The journey had been blissfully quiet, fallow fields to the West and thick forests to the East, so at first he thought the shape in the road, looming out of the heavy rain that had dogged his footsteps for two and a half days, was just a boulder or a tipped cart. It wasn’t until he was a few strides away that he noticed the blood pooling around the shape, diluted into a quickly spreading pink puddle by the torrential rain.

A body. He ran the final steps. They were dead - quite thoroughly dead - left in the middle of the road for wild dogs and ghouls to gnaw at. Lying next to the body, miraculously intact, was a lute. It was a cheap thing, the sort used by students and recent graduates. There was blood splashed across the wood, marring the pretty flowers that had been painted on the instrument. It was like a weight in his chest - like a rock. He fell to his knees and heaved at the body, already stiff, pushing it onto its back with a dull thud.

It was a young man, with dark hair to his shoulders. He was tall, and appeared to be slim beneath his cloak. For a brief moment, Jaskier debated pulling open his eyelids to see if his eyes were blue. A lone bard, tall, with pale skin and dark hair, killed and left in the middle of the road? It was too conspicuous to be a coincidence.

Thank all the gods: he didn’t recognise them. But was that worse? Was it worse knowing that this stranger had been killed in his stead, killed because he was young and inexperienced and hadn’t known what to say when run down by a gang of people demanding to know who he was, where he was going? Jaskier attempted to heave him up and at least move him out of the road, but he was heavy and soaked with rain, and Jaskier had been running too much and not eating enough to move anything heavier than a dead deer.

Instead, he grabbed the lute. He hadn’t actually played in months, long before giving his to Priscilla. Playing felt wrong, and it could have gotten him caught. He found himself fingering the strings. In the gloom he plucked at one, just once, and the untuned _twang_ made his heart flutter. He missed music more than he missed a warm bed or a good meal. With a quick glance up and down the empty road, he tucked the lute under his arm and ducked into the forest.

It was a new moon, and the only light that illuminated his makeshift camp was the one coming from the fire. He’d grown adept at building fires - Geralt had always huffed at him for getting them wrong, using the wrong sort of wood or not enough kindling, but necessity and practise had made him more proficient. The rain had stopped, finally, and while his cloak was hanging to dry on a nearby tree he took the lute and rested it across his knees.

The blood had washed away in the rain, leaving only a grim pink stain. He peered around once more, and then, his heart thundering in his ears, he plucked at the strings one by one.

It was painfully out of tune. It had probably been dropped and kicked about in the scuffle that led to its owner’s death. The _least_ he could do was tune it. Perhaps afterwards he could bury it. Part of him wanted to keep it and take it with him, to feel music vibrating up his fingers again, but he knew it was too dangerous.

Better to tune it, and leave it behind. That way he wouldn’t be tempted.

It felt good to have something to do again. Something to keep his mind and hands busy, distracting him from running and fear. The notes, tuneless at first but growing slowly more melodic the more he worked, echoed through the forest, reverberating from the trees. The soft sound in the otherwise silent night filled his chest, making him ache.

He found himself plucking a tune, his fingers softly playing on the strings to make the melody near-silent, just a whisper in the growing dark. He hadn’t played this song in over a year, and he mumbled the words beneath his breath, not daring to sing. _I welcome my sentence, give to you my penance…_

Gods, it was like a splinter lodged in his chest, stuck in his sternum. But he played on anyway, the notes quiet and the mumbled words even quieter. It hurt, but it was good, in a way: it reminded him he was still alive. Reminded him what he was walking away from.

_CRACK_.

He froze, fingers stuttering on the strings, the words dead in his mouth. The sound had come from somewhere behind him - somewhere in the trees. He lowered his hand from the lute to his hip, fingers twitching over the hilt of the still unused dagger. He didn’t know how to fight. Instinct would have to be enough.

He waited, the sudden silence oppressive and heavy against his ears. It was just a deer, he told himself. A deer or a fox. Maybe it wasn’t soldiers he’d had to guard himself against after all: maybe it was ghouls, or a wraith, or any one of the dozens of fearsome creatures he’d come face to face with while travelling with Geralt.

Part of him hoped it _was_ one of those beasts. It would be simpler, and kinder. At least ghouls weren’t working for pay.

The forest behind him was silent save for the creaking of boughs, the rattling of leaves. Perhaps he’d imagined the noise - perhaps it really _was_ just a deer, startling itself and running away back into the dense trees.

He turned, slowly, his hands still on the lute. The dim light of the fire barely reached the trees closest to him. He wished, not for the first time, that he was blessed with Geralt’s heightened eyesight.

Something flashed. A marr against a tree that Jaskier thought was just a shadow moved. Another crack - then another - and then, there they were.

They weren’t soldiers. Just people, just _humans_ , made desperate by war. Farmers turned bandits turned bounty hunters. They eked out of the shadows like ghosts. It didn’t matter that they had been spotted: they outnumbered him five to one.

For a long, prolonged moment nobody moved. And then the one closest to his camp - his face thin and his hair wild - lept forwards.

Jaskier gripped the dagger, pulling it free, and swung around, catching the man across the face. He snarled, pushing back, grabbing for Jaskier’s wrist. He grabbed it and spun, wrenching Jaskier’s arm. Jaskier yelped, but kept his hand gripped tight around the dagger, and the man repeated the movement, tugging with more force. There was a burning, sudden pain in Jaskier’s shoulder and elbow and then - fingers suddenly limp - he dropped the dagger to the floor.

Distracted by his quick victory, the man who was grabbing him’s grip went slack - just for a moment - and Jaskier managed to tug his now useless arm away, staggering back. The lute had fallen onto the ground next to the fire, and he reached down, grabbing it by the neck with his good arm and swinging it around. It connected with his attacker’s head with a dull crack. The bowl split and the neck detached from the body, hanging on only by the strings, but the man collapsed. Jaskier leapt back as he fell at his feet, skipping over the still-burning fire and dropping the lute.

He lept over a fallen tree, and ran.

“Fucking… get him, then!” Someone yelled, and another leapt over the tree, quick on his heels.

Jaskier could hear one of the bandits behind him shout, their footsteps crashing through the leaves. He stumbled over a branch, ducked under another, but he was slow - too slow, too pained, too broken. He’d been walking for weeks, his legs stronger than they’d ever been but more blistered, too, more painful.

And then they were right behind him.

And then there was something pushing against him and arms either side of his head and a flash of splintered wood in the corner of his vision--

_And then--_

He couldn’t breathe. There was a vice around his neck - a trap, a hand, a squeezing, tugging -

The strings of the destroyed lute dug into his skin, cutting off his airway. He spluttered, choking on his own split, digging at the strings with his fingernails, but the man behind him was stronger and just squeezed harder, the string slicing into the soft skin of his neck.

Lights burst in front of his eyes and there was a rushing in his ears. His heartbeat became a drum, threatening to deafen him. There was a sudden heat behind his eyes, blistering pain in his head. Jaskier struggled, trying desperately to free himself, scratching at his neck in his attempts to pull the thick, strangling strings away but only managing to tear his own skin.

He gasped instinctively, but with each gasp the strings grew tighter, the pain greater. He could only feel panic - panic and the bursting, building pain in his head and the sharpness of the strings, which only moments ago had been playing plaintive notes, cutting into him. His scrabbling hands connected with something and he dug in his nails, not sure if he was clawing at himself or the hands of his attacker.

This was it, this was _fucking_ it, after all this time and all this running. They’d wait until he’d finally stopped kicking and clawing and gasping and drag him to - gods - he didn’t even know who.

And - ah - there was a sudden stillness. The pounding in his ears, the feeling like his head was slowly filling with air, the tugging, stinging, _slicing_ that went all across his throat - it was nothing. Maybe he didn’t _need_ to breathe.

Jaskier shut his eyes.

There was a choked yell, quickly silenced. A cry. The discordant clang of steel.

Jaskier fell, the cold, damp earth suddenly beneath his knees, then beneath his cheek. The squeezing had stopped, but his throat was still tight, the gasping resumed stronger than before, each breath burning and ripping. He was aware, vaguely, that something was happening around him - but the rushing in his ears drowned out most of the noise, his vision blurred.

His mouth, lightly pressed against the dirt, was wet - wet with blood or spit or vomit he didn’t know. But the strings were no longer wrapped around his neck, and that was all that mattered.

The roaring in his ears pounded in and out, loud and soft, like waves against the shore.

Then breaking through the pulsing sound - footsteps - or an earthquake.

“Jaskier.”

No, _no_. He knew that voice. He knew it too well, _dreamed_ of it, dreamed of it shouting at him, whipped away by wind. Was he dead? Were they both dead? Or was Geralt back, back at the last minute - as always - to finally see Jaskier revenged for the ruin he'd brought to the witcher’s life, accidental or not?

Jaskier struggled, trying to sit up despite his spinning head and the fog still blinding him. Something heavy pressed against his chest, pushing his shoulders down, and he struggled harder, thrashing on the cold ground. He tried to speak - tried to beg - but all his throat could manage was a hoarse wheeze, making him cough and splutter. He _wheezed_ , hands rising to automatically scratch at his neck once more, like the strings were back, constricting.

The voice - _his_ voice - said something. A single word, muttered, and then there was a flash of white light and the sensation of slipping into a hot bath - the gentle rocking one felt just before falling asleep. Jaskier ceased his struggling, collapsing against the dirt, suddenly calm. His temples tingled, the feeling playing about his eyes and the back of his neck, making his skin break into goosebumps. It wasn’t unpleasant - it was reassuring, and soft, and suddenly he couldn’t remember what he’d been fighting against with such fervor.

He slumped back, hyper-aware of the damp leaves tickling at the back of his neck, as something began to paw and press at him. Pain. There _was_ pain there - the ghost of it, floating just outside him. He could feel it - stinging and aching and hot, trickling blood - but it didn’t mean anything anymore. Something titled his head, rubbed at his neck, pressed fingertips into his flesh.

And Jaskier lay, floating in his own thoughts.

There was a smell stinging at his nostrils. Something cold on his skin, on his neck. The pain flared, and he laughed at it.

The voice - disembodied and terrible - drew closer, near his ear. It mumbled something that Jaskier couldn’t quite make out.

And then he slipped, at last, into a deep and empty sleep.

It was warm. His back was cold, the fabric of his clothes damp, and yet, somehow: it was warm.

Someone was pinching at his fingers one by one. He flexed his digits instinctively and the pinching stopped immediately, flinching away.

Jaskier’s eyes opened, lids heavy, vision swimming. He was still in the forest - the trees lit up with an orange glow. The roaring noise in his ears had stopped, and now he could hear the crackling of a well-fueled fire.

The ground beneath him was spinning, slightly. If he rose, he was almost certain he would be sick. He wanted to move - to turn his head to properly look around - but there was something bundled around his head and neck, keeping it in place, keeping his face staring steadfastly upwards.

Where had he been travelling to? He could remember pain, and being alone in the forest. Trees. Music. Men: armed men, chasing him.

He'd been on his way somewhere. A journey. He’d been running. Running to what?

It came all at once. Lettenhove. His father. A marriage. Was he getting married? His blood-starved brain couldn't remember, but still clung to that information in the swirling fog of his memory.

Yes, that must be it. A marriage. He needed to get up. What good would lying on the floor do him if he had a wedding to attend? His _own_ , no less? But his body was stiff and unresponsive, slow and sluggish.

His lips cracked open. He attempted to call out, but could only manage a shuddering wheeze, a half-choked little noise.

A face swam into view, obscuring the dark treetops. Even unable to focus, Jaskier knew who it was. He tried to say his name, but that first glottal sound lodged in his throat, stuck there like a stray bone. He choked on it.

“Shh,” said Geralt, the whisper terribly loud, “Shh, Jaskier. Don’t try to speak.”

Jaskier’s head was still spinning, that odd tingling still fluttering around his nape. There was an urge to obey the command, to give in - but one he could fight, now, easily. He tried to speak again and then there was an ungloved finger on his lips, gentle pressure.

“We don’t know what the damage is,” the finger gave a single, soft press before moving away. “Don’t. It’s too risky. I don’t… Jaskier, I’m sorry. Just… just know that.”

The white haired vision shifted, and Jaskier could hear Geralt moving about the camp, kicking up the leaves. After a pause, he continued, his stilted voice awkward, clearly unused to being the one carrying conversation.

“We need to move you. I didn’t want to… not so soon. In case your neck…” he faltered, then started again. “An attack like that can be deadly. Not just strangulation, but with enough force… I had to make sure your neck wasn’t broken, Jaskier. But I think… I think it’s okay. If you’re lucky…” Geralt huffed, like he was heaving something onto his back. “There’s a healer nearby. Trustworthy, and a friend. From there we can try to get you somewhere safe.”

Jaskier blinked, desperately wishing he could speak. Part of him wanted to beg Geralt to leave him where he was, to let him sink into the leaves and moss and dirt where no one could find him. It was no more than he deserved. But part of him, still foolish and reckless, wanted to stay with him. It had been so long since he’d last seen Geralt - so long since they’d spent even an evening together - and he wanted him to _stay_. Just once. Just now.

There was the crunch of leaves and the bundles around his neck were gently moved away. Finally, he could move his head, and he slowly turned. His neck pulled, and even the tiniest movement felt like there was a hand pressed against his windpipe. He winced.

And then Geralt was kneeling directly over him. Jaskier’s vision was sharpening, and he could see the way Geralt’s eyebrows knotted together, the line of his worried mouth.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “About this. _For_ this.”

He reached down, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s torso, and lifted him from the ground. Even Jaskier’s torn and broken throat couldn’t stop the noise that escaped his lips. He cried out, and Geralt pulled him closer, his head lolling against Geralt’s chest. It was like he was back with the strings wrapped around his neck, back in the burning dark. Geralt’s grip around him was sturdy and strong as he hauled him bodily from the ground, but even his steady movements jolted his head and shoulders, sending spasms shooting down his spine.

Somehow, Geralt maneuvered him onto the back of a horse. _Roach_. Jaskier wanted to greet her, to pat her, but everything hurt too much to even properly look at her. Through a blaze of pain he was soon seated on her back, Geralt pressed behind him, one of his arms wrapped around his middle.

They set off, and even at the slow, deliberate trot Geralt kept Roach to Jaskier could feel each footfall, each bump in the road. Every so often Geralt murmured a low apology in Jaskier’s ear - his own voice hoarse.

Jaskier let his eyes slide shut, trying to ignore the pain, trying to keep it away. He’d travelled in pain before, be it a sprained joint or a broken bone or just a particularly bad hangover, and he’d nearly mastered the technique of breathing and distracting himself. But this was nothing like he’d felt before, and no amount of rhythmic breathing would be enough. He focused instead on the warmth of Geralt’s body, the grip of his arm around his middle, the way his fingers splayed across his ribcage.

A few times, he nearly fell asleep. And every time, he found himself being gently woken - those deft fingers pressing into his skin.

“You can’t,” Geralt muttered, “not yet.” And then, again: “Sorry.”

The healer’s hut was tucked away in a narrow wooded valley. It was an odd place for such an establishment, too far a ride away from any towns or even _villages_ to be of much use in an emergency. Jaskier squinted through half-closed eyes as Geralt bundled him through the door, catching a glance of dark skin and grey hair, before slipping back against Geralt’s chest.

He was lowered onto a bed - the pillow tossed aside as Geralt laid him down. He had a minute or so to marvel at how comfortable it was before there was something cool pressed to his lips.

“Here,” a voice he didn’t know. “Drink this.”

He did. And then he slept, and dreamt of black-gloved hands around his neck.

The room smelt of smoke and herbs - something spicy and warm, tickling his nose. For a moment, it was like he was safe in an inn somewhere, comfortably tipsy on cheap beer, dozing on a wide bed while Geralt made some potion.

And then he remembered, and opened his eyes.

His throat was still tight, but the pain had dulled. There was something wrapped around his neck.

And something warm upon his hand.

He turned, slowly, trying not to wrench his neck. Geralt sat beside him, his hair pulled into a ponytail, dark bags beneath his eyes. His hand was placed over Jaskier’s, and he was looking away, staring at nothing. Jaskier twitched his fingers and Geralt’s gaze snapped around immediately, his eyes wide, pupils suddenly expanding.

“You’re awake.”

Jaskier smiled, and tried to respond - _observant as ever, Geralt_ \- but his voice wouldn’t come. He coughed, his throat flaring with pain.

“You can’t… not yet. But soon.” Geralt looked down, guilty, at where his hand still rested on top of Jaskier’s. “I hope.”

_I hope_. Fuck. Jaskier’s face was suddenly hot, his heart suddenly pounding. His skin went cold - like the bed had given way and he’d fallen fully into an icy stream. His eyes burning with sudden, unbidden tears.

Geralt’s face lit up in panic, and he hurriedly attempted to take the words back.

“No,” he said, “You will, you _will_. Just… you need to heal. It’ll take time.”

It did little to convince Jaskier, and he squeezed his eyes, trying to force back the tears. It hadn't been a choice, but suddenly it felt like it: the choice between a death on a forest floor or to never speak again. Never _sing_ again.

But - he'd had a plan. He was going to Lettenhove to throw himself at his father's mercy. Perhaps he'd never have sung again regardless. He’d left his lute behind - and that memory was sudden and vivid and bright. _He’d given his lute away._

He’d already made that decision: music, or his life. He’d been prepared to make that trade.

It didn’t make it sting any less.

Geralt gave his hand a soft squeeze. Jaskier peered at him - his cracked, heavy expression.

“There’s something else,” Geralt said, finally. He nearly whispered it, Jaskier straining to hear. “I… need to apologise. When I found you, I was desperate, and you kept struggling…” He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, looking exhausted. “I used Axii on you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

_Oh_. The tingling in his nape, the sudden sense of calm. Of course. Jaskier had _seen_ Geralt use the sign countless times - in fact, he’d often wondered how it felt - but he knew how meddling with someone’s mind wore on Geralt. But had he not, Jaskier would have continued to struggle, no doubt wounding himself even more. The sign may have even saved his life.

He wanted to say that it was alright - that there was nothing to forgive - but his voice was scratchy and harsh, and the sounds wouldn’t come. Instead, he turned his hand over, threading his fingers between Geralt’s in a way he hoped was reassuring.

They sat hand in hand for a moment. Jaskier allowed his head to loll back and stared up at the ceiling, peering at the bunches of dried herbs and flowers hanging there. The pain was lessened like this, without any added strain on his muscles. It was enough to know that Geralt was there: he didn’t need to see him. He could feel Geralt’s hand in his, keeping him grounded.

Jaskier drifted until the healer returned. Now he could really see her: she was older, with long grey hair brushing down to her waist and dark skin. Around her waist was a belt, strung with alchemy ingredients, herbs and flowers and leaves. It was a bandage that was so tight around his neck, and she removed it with soft, cool hands before slathering the skin beneath in an ointment that smelled faintly of honey before re-wrapping it, just as tight as before.

Her fingers palpated at the sides of his neck and she asked him quick, easy questions - could he breathe, could he see, could he move his fingers, now the other hand, now his toes - and he responded the best he could without the use of his voice.

“You’re extremely lucky,” she said, when she finally moved away. “By all rights, you should be dead. _Surviving_ is one thing. _Healing’s_ quite another entirely. It’ll take time. A _long_ time. I hope you’re prepared for that.”

He nodded at her, wincing a little as he did, and she smiled, sadly.

“I’ve heard all about your singing. Your chattering, too. I’ll do what I can for you before you move on.”

Jaskier smiled at her, and wondered where, exactly, he'd be moving on to. Back in the forest, when Geralt had scooped Jaskier into his arms, he’d mentioned finding him somewhere safe. "You", he’d said. Not "us".

When she was gone, Geralt settled back beside him in the chair. He still looked tired, but there was more life in his eyes than earlier. This time, he kept his hands by his side. Jaskier wanted to extend his hand - to touch him, to _feel_ him - but fear swirled in his stomach. Geralt found him. He’d saved him, and made sure he’d gotten the help he needed. He had no obligation to do anything else.

Jaskier thought about the decision he’d made weeks ago: to return home, if it ever really _was_ his home, and give it all up. He watched Geralt carefully, and wondered, though his mind was addled with tinctures and strong, sleepy painkillers, if there was another path he could take.

There was a splinter in his heart, still. Perhaps the dramatic rescue - the glimpse of death - had made it lodge only deeper.

His reason had utterly left him, stolen away by the man who’d wrapped lute strings around his throat and tugged. He snaked a cautious hand across the bed towards Geralt, fingertips catching on the folds in the fabric.

_Stay_. The word he couldn't say out loud echoed in his skull. _Stay. Or - take me with you._

Finally, Geralt looked down at Jaskier’s hand, pale against the dark red sheet.

And he reached out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed my fic and want to see more of my writing, gifsets and (most importantly), shitposts, come and say hello on tumbr at [a-kind-of-merry-war!](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/)


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